End of Kipple #5

January 2, 2011

In perfect fashion, the first cab driver who took me anywhere was another "Shlomi". Like 1/3 of all other Israeli cabbies. That is where the order stops, though. And he didn't even hit on me. Miracle.

Well, I suppose the order does not actually stop. Israeli routine is chaotic and ridden with countless seemingly unnecessary steps. And so plans most often do not go as planned for their usual ETAx3.

My plan was to land, gather my תעודת עולה (Teudat Oleh-Immigrant ID), initial payment, and arrival information, etc. and go get a cell phone. Of course, being without a cell phone in this day and age is difficult in general. Being without a cell phone in Israel upon arrival while technically homeless for another two weeks borders on torturous. But it is already Sunday and i have as yet been unable to obtain this small but necessary device.

Why? The system is not like the American one. And I refuse to blow $300 on a temp phone for one week. In order to get a phone, I must have an Israeli bank account so the corrupt bond between bank and cellphone company can flourish heartily. But in order to open a bank account, I must possess my תעודת זהות (Teudat Zehut-ID Card--this is different from the Immigrant ID). 

On top of that, it is impossible to even research cellphone plan option because 

A. they change daily and

B. the people won't even talk to me without a תעודת זהות (Teudat Zehut) in hand.

"You come beck," they nod, reassuringly. "We will be here."

Great.

I then discover that all the banks are closed today. And that after I open the bank account, I have to request a document granting permission from the bank to the cell phone company to credit my account. Or, I have to request a document from the cellphone company requesting permission from the bank to credit the account. Or both. 

January 3, 2011

At the Nefesh B'Nefesh office, I was able to open the bank account (finally), which enabled me to get a phone, so now I don't feel lost and disconnected anymore. 

Of course, I was only able to open the bank account because I got my תעודת זהות (Teudat Zehut-ID Card). And of course, there are massive problems with it. They spelled my name incorrectly even though I told them verbally and on paper no less than five times how to spell it. 

They also decided that all of the information on the card would be one line too far down on the card, so I was born in "Female" and my sex is the "United States of America" or something like that. They also can't type and changed my father's named from "Daniel" to "Nield". So now I have to go get more passport photos, resubmit everything to the משרד הפנים (Misrad HaPnim-Ministry of the Interior) and wait at least a week for them to hopefully correct their mistakes.

Well. Welcome to Israel. Where the bureaucracy can't get no higher.

The good news is that my number stays the same, so I don't have to worry about my payments getting delayed. I just have to submit my bank account and other information to the משרד הקליטה (Misrad HaKlita-Ministry of Absorption) and they start dumping cash. Which means I can pay my cell phone bill and my other bills, like health insurance in the meantime. 

Speaking of which:

I got off the plane, was immediately signed up for basic coverage (as stated), which is free for the first year and automatically covers all pre-existing conditions forevermore. In the airport, I was talking to a woman who is also a Type I Diabetic who made Aliyah three years ago and has the same health plan as I do. She told me that for all of her insulin and supplies, she pays maybe 180 shekels a month. That is approximately $50.75!

I elected to upgrade my health coverage from basic to Gold, which includes exciting things like Accupuncture, eye, and dental for 45 shekels/month--$12.69. I love this. Very cheap, amazing health care. But socialized medicine is evil. I suppose on this one, I'll traffic with the devil because I elect to live. 

On another practical note, and a return to the cellphone issue, I've been discovering even more differences between the Israeli and American systems. 

Actually infuriating: a cellphone catalog provided by the store with all kinds of models, etc:

1. does not list features of models, the pros and cons against other and

2. does not list any prices.

I ask the prices repeatedly to the salesman and get "It's no problem. Which one you want?"

"How. Much. Do. They. COST?"

"No problem. Which one? I give you deal."

Great answer. Really informative.

Because Israel is such a small, closed market, all the companies are relatively the same. So there is really no difference. Each one is just as horrible or all right as the next. The lines are just longer or shorter. I went with the short line. Up the hill. Harder to get to. 

The weird thing is that if you buy a plan and talk over your minutes, you can get your phone for free. Don't ask me to explain this. I took me about two hours to figure out how the companies make it appear that they're helping you, the consumer, out and losing profit but really, they're just screwing us even more. Still, it's the cheapest way to go if I don't want to pay 45 Agurot (shekel cents) per minute or per SMS. 

Meanwhile, I've been staying with my friend Jake, in Netanya, as mentioned earlier, along with his roommates. One of them has a spare phone and has offered to sell it to me so I don't have to deal with the rip-off through the company and the phone plan. I think I may go with that. After I trial it for a week. 

As I continue the job hunt. 

End of Kipple #4

December 28, 2010

My Immigration ID- תעודת עולה

This is a story of immigration but we must remember that behind every immigrant there is an emigrant that cannot be erased.

People ask me why I'm leaving America and I tell them that I'm not leaving. I'm going. People get very lofty ideas, ask me if I'm following a dream, following my roots back and becoming one "with the salt of the earth". I don't say aloud that I learned Israel with my feet and that the knowledge of it crept up from my soles until it reached my mind. That the primary reason for going is that it is the only place I have ever been where I am happy without trying. I don't tell them that I made the decision to go only after much pondering and collecting the salt of my eyes.

I will always be an emigrant from America and I'll always remember. I'll always remember what I came from and what I left behind me. It's why I sing my own arrangement of Woody Guthrie about how this land was made for you and me. Now, it's that land.

Frozen Pond in Boston

As usual, the flight was on time--Israeli style--over an hour late. I made friends with the officer from the משרד הפנים (Ministry of the Interior). She invited me over for Shabbat, along with another עולה (immigrant) I befriended on the check-in line. This is why I've moved to Israel. Because even the משרד הפנים officer invites me over for dinner and gives me her cell phone number.

"You must call me," she insists. I will. Once I get a phone.

I'm smiling already. This is home.

I also befriended the stewardesses. Martin wouldn't fit in the overhead bins or the closet. I hung out waiting and talked to No'a, the stewardess about why he can't go under the plane and why I've chosen to move. She told me she lives in America now and that even though she enjoys it, there are still things she cannot understand on a fundamental level.

December 26, 2010 Blizzard, Old Bridge, NJ

"My husband and I were driving," she told me, "and there was a huge accident. And not one car stopped to help. I couldn't believe it! Nobody cared! In Israel, everyone would stop. No question."

This is the difference. In the United States, we can go to jail for acting the Good Samaritan if those saved decide to sue us for saving their lives. "Because I wanted to die and you took away my rights." Look it up.

No'a couldn't find a place for Martin, so she took him and put him in the staff storage on-board. "Don't forget him," she told me. "Don't worry," I said.

Once Martin was squared away, I attempted to return to my seat, 51H, an aisle. Very religious man was asking me if I could switch seats because one of the stewardesses knew a married couple who had been separated and gave the groom a seat next to his bride--the man's seat.

The man's problem was that the new seat arrangement placed him next to a woman and he is forbidden from doing this. Now I'm sandwiched in a middle seat across the plane, but the company is great, other than the screaming babies (about 20 children all under the age of 4) in the seats behind me.

Bud the Frog

We just ate dinner and a crowd of people is dancing and clapping in the aisle benching (saying the Grace After Meals prayers) right now...Actually they're apparently getting married on the plane. What the hell! Only on El Al. Oh, just found out that they're not getting married, they're saying the Seven Blessings after the ceremony. Still what the hell! Only on El Al.

One other thing you'll never find on another airline: thirsty passengers taking charge and pouring their glasses of water. Flight attendants waving them by and taking care of the crying bride who can't find room for her wedding dress in the closet.

Despite this, there are still things I'll miss. People. Connections and how I had to cut them short. Beef hot dogs, cheddar cheese, fried chicken and biscuits.

Blizzard Dec. 26, 2010 Plowing Aftermath

I'll miss the way leaves burn on fire, brilliant at the cusp of death in a New England autumn. I'll miss the lush green of the South, the flooding wetness and the thunder of an atmosphere charged with the energy of a summer storm.

I'll miss warm rain in summer and the Massholes in Boston.

I'll miss driving, being in complete control of my vehicle of motion and the curves it traces down the road. I'll miss the glitter of raindrops sparkling in the pre-sunset light on the back window from the driver's seat. I'll miss the distinct smell of cold rising up off fallen leaves.

Netanya from my friend's apartment. Yes, that's the Mediterranean.

But the world opens up before me. It emits light like an explosion and of days with clear skies.

America gave me a good send-off: the blizzard of the decade. New Jersey was buried in 2.5 feet of snow overnight. I plowed.

As it fell I wondered at how the snow fell like universes, descending flakes ad infinitum. Flakes descended in drifts and soft waves. It is beautiful until we have to become part of civilization again.

I know I won't miss the snow.

More Netanya

Calm has descended upon me, like the snow erasing the lines we humans have carved into the earth. I'm going home and it will be hard. And it might not work out. But it is right. Sometimes logic doesn't cut it and I have to follow my emotion. For the first time, I really have. It is like gliding on wind, a rush and a calm all at once. And nothing can describe what I felt when the plane touched down: happiness swelling until I couldn't contain it and so it came out again, through the salt of my eyes. And so my emigrant met my immigrant and they canceled each other out.

End of Kipple #3

November 14, 2010
Today is the day I'm giving my notice at work. I hope. The Boss should be there. And he won't be happy. He's never happy. I know what that's like. But too bad. My visa finally came through and my notebooks are lined up on a shelf in Netanya waiting for me. Scared as I am, there is no turning back.

As usual, the state of affairs is not well. Like every morning, the first thing I do is read the news. The world doesn't understand Israel's "Temporary" "Loyalty Oath" and I have to admit that I don't quite understand it either. As a Palestinian quoted in Svetlova's article "Law and Disorder" from the Jerusalem Post on November 14, 2010, states: "...as far as I know, Jews, Muslims and Christians live in this state, and I don't see how it can become a 'Jewish state.' And what does that mean exactly?" Israel has always been something else. But it has always been a state run by Jews and created as a haven for Jews. The question is what is Jewish? The other question is what is democracy? And the biggest question is can a 'Jewish' state - whatever that means- in fact, be democratic?

A very good friend of mine from the Tel Aviv area says with more conviction than I've ever heard from anyone else that as citizens of a democracy it is not only our right but our daily obligation to question, protest, and fight our governments. Israelis, judging by the level of activism, which translates into actively screaming street mobs in the tens of thousands every other week or more, obviously share the same opinion.

Americans like to complain but we haven't really moved as a body since the 1960s and early '70s during the protests of the Vietnam War. An old high school friend of mine says that this is precisely because all the protesters are now in power, so they know how to quash the incentive and the riot. Everything has fizzled from inspiration-to-action into insubstantial jargon. And so by our inaction, we pour the acid that dissolves the ground from beneath our feet.

November 16, 2010
We can easily see the disintegration of America in everyday life. Let's return to my retail job.

Like I said, I was giving my notice to the Boss two days ago. Just for the record, the previous cafe manager apparently quit over the phone and never showed up again. Boss was already informed about a month ago that I would be leaving around December.

He says, 'I thought you would be here until December."
"Yes," I replied. "Through November 30. Until December."
"I'm going to need that in writing," he says. "For your file."
For my file? What am I resigned from? The FBI?! Friggin' RETAIL. What's he going to do if I don't do it? Fire me? Because I sure as hell know it's not going to include giving me an extra paycheck.

I've decided that I will put it in writing to his boss:

Dear Madame,

I am writing to inform you of my resignation from my position as a whore-to-retail-barista as of November 30, 2010. Your gluttonously bitter underling has made it so very pleasant to work for your company.

Contrary to popular belief, your employees are highly educated, literate, and well-rounded. Surprisingly, we are aware that English is, in fact, written from left to right. In addition, we are capable not only of critical thinking but of the practical application of our skills in a high-stress, abusive atmosphere where we are perpetually treated like yesterday's decaying refuse. Unfortunately, we are very much alive and will not be of use to any rogue students of the mycological or scatological disciplines, although I am sure many of our customers would.

We maintain our artificial smiles and cheer in spite of these conditions, along with the knowledge that all we get in return is a complaint and a minimum wage paycheck eaten to nothing by taxes for which we receive nothing in return but the promise of an empty social security account.

I would also like to inform you that despite my lowly position on your corporate food-chain, I am always aware of when I have customers. Your general manager, however, seems not to be aware of the fact that a human being devoid of super powers is quite incapable of taking an order, making an order, grinding coffee, brewing coffee, doing dishes, restocking the RTD case and condiment station, asking 25 irrelevant questions  about our Plus program (that the customers don't give a crap about), and selling bags of beans simultaneously- all within the course of one minute and forty-five seconds. We are particularly incapable when we are scheduled alone on a Sunday during the Holiday season.

Also, "every customer, every time" often results in "no customers, anytime" because they've already made their choice, are sick of being pestered, and just want to pay for their goddamned drink and get on with it.

I could go on but I'll offer a suggestion: begin an anonymous employee evaluation of their general managers every 4-8 weeks. There's more than one reason our stores are failing and it's not solely due to the lack of micromanagement. Rather, it has much more to do with the lack of employee morale incited by abusive, thankless management.

With that, I bid you adieu. Have a wonderful Holiday Season and generate much profit.

All the best,
Me

Later...
On Sunday, after I gave the notice, I got another deluge of brilliant customers. First of all, I was on the floor (alone again) and had to call over help from the book side - which actually showed up this time.

We get a woman who asks me what drinks we have that "aren't sweet". I tell her any of our teas, brewed coffees, or cold-brew coffees without added flavor. She says "No, I want something cold, with flavor."

"Ok. We have sugar-free options: vanillia, hazelnut, raspberry, and orange-vanilla," I tell her.

"I don't want sugar. How about this strawberry drink?" Does it have sugar?" she asks, indicating a blended strawberry shake.

(Are you getting lost, because I am...)

"Yes. Strawberry is fruit and full of glucose...sugar," I say.

"What do you have sweet without sugar?"

(FML): "Vanilla, hazelnut, raspberry, and orange-vanilla," once again, now.

"I'll take the strawberry drink."

"Even though it has sugar?"

"Yes."

"Ok."

I start to make the strawberry shake. She sees me fill the cup with ice, says "No. I don't want ice."

"It's a blended drink. You won't see the ice, but it's sweet and cold like you want..."

"I don't want. Give me a regular coffee."

WTF.

And then someone confuses the stinking banana bread with the cinnamon pecan again and really means orange cranberry coffee cake--but gets angry with me for telling her that the banana bread is sold out. While she clearly points at orange cranberry, insisting that it's banana bread, and changing her mind to "cinnamon pecan," and yelling at me about how the banana bread, which is no longer available, is actually still there.

Then, the stupid espresso machine explodes milk everywhere.

The line is out to the front door and the Boss shows up and stands between the register and the coffee brewers, taking up 2.5 of the 3ft space, and watches me run back-and-forth frantically while he does absolutely nothing.

We're out of coffee, we're out of milk, and we're almost out of whipped cream. We're out of napkins. Customers are complaining about all of this and I can't make half the drink because of the lack of whipped cream and coffee.

I run to the back to get supplies as customers scream at me from every direction because I need to restock and the Boss says (as he stands there, in the way, doing nothing): "You have customers."

Mmm. I didn't notice. Thought we were absolutely empty just now.

What kind of idiot is he? A very rare breed mixed with extra-special schmuck. Two more weeks. And I'm done.

End of Kipple #2

November 9, 2010


Just a little bit different than the usual, but this is what I do in real life. These were recorded a few days ago at a jam session I went to with my Dad at his friend Sam's house, by Sam:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6uAHdV1x2zQ

This is "Forever Young" by the great Bob Dylan. Not the whole song, because the video started too late and I didn't know. Oops.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wpxlw5M9r2Q

This is my song, "Soldier Man"

Hope you enjoy these. 

End of Kipple #1

October 31, 2010

More adventures of working during my last bit of time in the States. Working retail jobs gets really entertaining when you think about the irony of it all. Like I mentioned, people automatically think I and my co-workers are idiots because we work behind a cash register. But we know who the real idiots are.

Yesterday was a prime example. First of all, I was scheduled on a Saturday. Again. The one day I do not have availability. Ever. For the sixth week in a row.

Anyhow, I get there and the strip mall paradise-of-posh is exploding like fireworks on Chinese New Year with children in costume under the age of ten. Followed by lots of pissed-off disgruntled parents dealing with too many children jacked up on sugar highs.

The line at work was about eight miles long and all of us were thinking that now would be the perfect moment to collapse and feign death. At least it wasn't mop night.

Everything went wrong. The refrigerator/RTD case that had been broken for three weeks until two days ago decided to start flooding the lobby, with the temperature fluctuating between 30 and 43 F every sixty seconds. Perfect.

The only way tot fix this, since the troubleshooter handbook does not list this "error," is to turn off the case via circuit breaker. Whoever labeled the circuit breaker was just brilliant and confused book side with cafe side (but only sometimes), so when I went to turn off the case I ended up turning off all the lights int he cafe and all the computers in the staff room. Oops.

While looking for the actual switch, which ends up being labeled "deli-something-or-other", I come across a switch labeled "Fart Fan". WTF is that, may I so humbly ask?

Then, in the middle of everything, we get the worst nightmare customers possible. In the middle of that, my co-worker left the sink on for I-have-no-idea-how-long, so I walked into a flooding kitchen with bubbles six feet high. Yay for floods. Everywhere.

As for the customers, I can't believe how incredibly genius they are. And how caring.

One woman walks in and stares intently at the food case. She order a "cinnamon pecan coffee cake".
I give it to her and she says, "No. That's not what I ordered." So I repeat "cinnamon pecan coffee cake". She says, "Yes. But I wanted this," and points to the banana bread.

I say, "That's banana bread."
She says, "But the sign says it's cinnamon pecan coffee cake."
"I'm sorry," I say. "Someone must have made a mistake earlier in the day. Would you rather get the banana bread?"
"No. I hate banana bread. I want the cinnamon pecan."
"Well, you've got it," I say and push the plate towards her.
And she says, "But I wanted that..." and points to the banana bread.
O_o
"If you want cinnamon pecan, I'd go with what I gave you," I say. "And if you want banana bread, I'd go with what you're pointing at."
She says: "I don't like bananas."

Kill me now.

Then, there's the guy who orders a Large Decaf. I give him a Large Decaf. He says "Didn't I order a Large?"
I say, "Yes. That's what your holding."
He says, "You better not be pulling a Starbucks on me."
And I say, "We're not Starbucks."
He says, " Well, when I order a Tall at Starbucks, it means small."
"When you order a Large here, it means Large," I say. He tells me to show him the sizes. Small. Medium. Large.
He says, "Well, this is too much for me. Spill it out." I spill it out into a Small cup. He looks at the board.
"You know, in English, we read from left to right," he informs me. As if I'm illiterate. "And your sign lists Large on the left and Small on the right, which is false advertising and counter-intuitive. I wanted a Small."
"But you said 'Large'," I say.
"I want to complain," he responds.
"Ok. Feel free to fill out one of our customer comments/complaints cards on the condiment station and tell Corporate how stupid they are. Have a great night."

Then there was the woman who told us that our hot chocolate (seriously one of the best drinks EVER) was the "most disgusting drink she'd ever had in her life". We fixed it for her and she said it was great, then sent her boytoy over to us to complain and get a refund.

And then there was the woman who got pissed because she didn't like waiting in line with ONE person in front of her for thirty seconds. So she stormed out and threw her book at a sales person.

I give up. Retail can go die.

Starting Over

October 23, 2010

Time is perceived and in these few months I have been in America, it seems to flow in slow motion. I know I'm going towards where I belong. It's the only place I have ever felt truly at home. But I have given my life thus far to America, to its ideals, to the Dream that I know cannot come true anywhere in its borders but for a very small group of people. Apparently, I am not one. And I never felt at home no matter how hard I tried.

Possessions are inconsequential so I am going through them and tossing them out. Clothing, toys, all sorts of things. Everything but the books. The books are not inconsequential. They are ideas, illustrations of a life, souls captured and conveyed beyond themselves. Everything else, I leave behind. I will build my life from the ground up in the place where I belong. And it will be hard.

I read the news daily. Of course, it is its usual dire self. An apocalyptic depiction. A desperate situation. It's always been this way. If the world has always been at the brink of destruction, I think we're all just fine. Thus far, the brink has not crumpled into thin air.

Still, though, there are things I'll miss. Of course, the people. Who I always miss but who I never get to see anyway. But really: beef hot dogs, cheddar cheese, the occasional basket of fried chicken and biscuits.

I'll miss the way leaves burn on fire, brilliant at the cusp of death in New England in the autumn. I'll miss the lush green, the flooding wetness and the thunder of an atmosphere charged with the power of a summer storm. I'll miss warm rain in summer, the southern drawl and the Masshole accents up in Boston and the Woo. I'll miss the fact that for my hard work and for all my love, I could never give enough to America to make myself fit the mould.

People ask me what I found in Israel and if I really let myself answer I would tell the absolute truth: I found the love of my life. Sometimes you just know and it's love at first sight. I tell them this without saying it and it becomes a much longer answer . I tell them I love the weather, the way we're all like one overly-involved dysfunctional family around a dinner table. I love the insanity, the chaos, the way we can pause for a moment, go para-sailing, snorkeling, running, singing, take a breath, always have somewhere to go, someone to turn to who genuinely cares. I found Home. Heimat. The feeling I never thought or believed had anything to do with geography.

Well, maybe the geography is just the key. It's the people within that space who really make all the difference. But I feel at home even on a street where I don't know anyone.

October 28, 2010

Two months to the day until I land as an Israeli citizen. The autumn here goes back and forth between hot and cold. One thing stays consistent: wind. The wind drives at my back and I turn around to face it. As always, I take comfort in motion.

As usual, I grind on at my retail job which insists on getting worse by the second. Standing behind a cash register in food service must be synonymous with "non-human, worthless idiot" to the average person. I and my co-workers are constantly mistreated, insulted and under-appreciated.

Not to mention that the boss is my favorite kind of person. Taking pleasure in creating others' misery is his favorite past-time. If we tell him we are absolutely unavailable on a certain day at a certain time, he'll make sure to schedule us in. And not on days we have no problem with. We've also been informed that we don't really matter because food is cheaper than books. But we better be flawless at our jobs--and the added tasks due to the abrupt firing of all cleaning staff.

Not to mention that no matter how hard we scrub the floor drains, the toilet likes to explode through the sink in the cafe every evening when we empty the ice bin. Go figure. Of course, this is our fault, and not the fault of Those-Who-Do-Not-Call-Plumbers.

It is routine to get scalded and to have customers call us morons for not being "fast enough" when we're alone with a line of 25.

I wouldn't mind this if I actually had a life. But there is no life here and I see no future. I never did, I guess. This is the sad part.

Later...

I spent all of today getting my visa application ready. AKA The heights of Israeli bureaucracy. It drives me insane. But it drives everyone insane and after we're covered in red tape, peel it off until we're bald, we get to sit down with some nana tea and chumus and have a good laugh. Truly, it baffles me how they can need so many damned copies of one form. This is the digital age and I already presented them in person.

Meanwhile, my things are finally beginning to take shape in boxes. Lots of books. Clothing gotten rid of. I've been running around getting last-minute stuff before I do the final packing. Got the new computer, netbook, travel speakers. Last minute clothing I need: some pants, shirts, etc. Still need to get sneakers and other kinds of shoes here because that's cheaper. And my favorite: consolidating my favorite Federal Student Loans! Already dealt with the Private ones and once this is over with everything will be in lovely order.

Writing some songs. Hopefully finding someone to bring my guitar, Therem, over to Arkady in Yokneam so I don't have to worry about wasting baggage. And giving lots of things away and/or selling them. It will be a nice feeling when my space here is empty and my whole life is ahead of me waiting to be filled with meaning instead of things.

Travel Log #39

The Jordan River on the Syrian/Lebanese Border

August 13-14, 2010

On many tours, we are taken atop, Ramot, "heights," mountains overlooking the landscape. From up there, the contours of the land are laid out and the patterns of settlement are easy to decipher.

"Wherever there are neighborhoods with red roofs, it's a Jewish town. Whenever they are flat and white and, usually, built along the natural contours of the land, it's an Arab town," the tour guides tell us. Jerusalem is the one exception--Jerusalem Stone and no red tile. When I first heard this, I filed it away as useful information.

View of the Galil over Yokneam

In retrospect, I can say that a lot of what goes on in the little space of land between the Mediterranean and the Jordan comes down to people yelling about a red roof. Some commission them, live under them. The red roof is their pride and glory, the realization of an impossible dream. It is the long-awaited reclamation of their long-lost land. Return.

Some wake up and look over the green and brown hills. They build the red roof. It is the symbol of their oppression, of what has been built atop land that once was theirs, over the plot where their home stood for generations. They still grasp the rusting key but it doesn't fit the door under the red roof.

Everyone yells for mercy--mercy for some space, some time, for a Homeland, for shelter from the political storm. Mercy for death and mercy for life. Souls bleed the summation of the human cocktail of emotion. Souls search for salvation, for a haven from genocide, for a Westernized democracy. Jewish souls, Muslim, Christian, Arab souls, souls of refugees and of foreign workers--all yell from under or above, looking in upon, or out from, for and against the red roof.

View of the Negev from Sde Boker

Climb a red roof: from the west, the sea. From the east, the mountains. From the desert, an empty landscape dotted with green kibbutzim--a vast vacuum of nothingness so full of dreams, anguish, God--gods--it's no wonder nothing else can fit.